Salt, Skin, and the Illusion of Escape

They call this 'healing.' They say running into the freezing surf at dawn washes away the grime of a nine-to-five existence and the lingering scent of cheap office coffee.
I run, my feet sinking into the grit, feeling the spray hit my skin like a thousand tiny needles. It’s not peace; it's just a different kind of friction. The sunlight is beautiful, sure—it highlights the curves they all want to possess and the shadows they try to hide.
There is no prince waiting under these rocks, only the rhythmic, crushing weight of the tide. But as the cold water swirls around my ankles, I realize that being alone in the wreckage of a broken city isn't so bad. There’s a certain heat in this isolation, a delicious ache that reminds me I am still very much alive, even if the only thing touching me right now is the salt and the wind.

Editor: Cinderella's Coach